


You Know I Know

by entwashian



Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entwashian/pseuds/entwashian
Summary: Carlton has always been a psychic investigator. Shawn has always been a cop.





	You Know I Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JessaLRynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessaLRynn/gifts).



Carlton sits across from Officer S. Spencer, who hadn’t gotten up to greet Carlton when he walked over or offered to shake his hand. The only thing Officer Spencer had offered was a brisk once-over, his hazel eyes sharp and assessing.

Carlton feels his jaw tense up, and struggles to relax his muscles, to appear calm. To appear _stable_.

“So you maintain that it was your psychic vision which showed you the manager of the store committing these robberies?” It’s not in Spencer’s tone or his facial expression, but something about his manner oozes sarcasm.

“Correct.” Carlton fights the urge to run a hand over his neatly buzzed hair, or to straighten the snug knot of his necktie. He can’t afford to have his frustration be mistaken for apprehension yet again.

Spencer sets down the pen that he’s been toying with throughout the conversation, and leans back in his chair. “Prove it,” he says.

Carlton, who is not in the business of supplying proof, responds, “It’s not a faucet. You can’t just turn it on and off.”

“How inconvenient for you.” Spencer smiles.

“Very,” Carlton says. “Imagine your sink starting to gush all by itself several rooms away every time you pick up your keys to leave the house.”

As Spencer lifts his arms to cradle the back of his head between laced fingers, his inner wrists brush against his hair. He’s managed to style it in a way that gives the overall impression of an unruly mess, though no one could argue that it wouldn’t meet regulation standards.

“Let’s just try picking up those keys, then, Mr. Lassiter,” he suggests.

Carlton doesn’t manage to hold back the sigh this time. “I told you, psychometry--”

“Means you need a focus that you can get all hands-on with, yeah,” Spencer says dismissively, nudging his pen across the surface of the table toward Carlton.

“Look, unless you have some very strong feelings about that pen,” Carlton says, “it’s just not going to work. Psychic resonances tend to set up lasting reverberations only during episodes of extreme emotion.”

This time when Spencer grins at him, it’s toothy and blinding, almost feral. Carlton feels the trip wire go off as he passes through it, but he still can’t puzzle out the nature of the trap that’s being sprung upon him until he sees Spencer reaching for his duty belt.

The handcuffs clink against the tabletop, the chain rattling gently as it settles on the hard surface.

“I tend to get a strong reaction whenever I whip these puppies out,” Spencer says.

Of course.

They’re the last thing Carlton wants to touch, honestly. Usually, he’s blindsided by the visions, no idea of what’s coming or when. But handcuffs, well. He has a pretty good idea about what people are generally feeling when taken into custody by the police. Fear, rage, humiliation, desperation… not exactly what Carlton was hoping would find him today when he rolled out of bed this morning.

“Just pick em up and have a little look-see,” Spencer goads him in a cavalier way, waving a hand at the cuffs still sitting on the table. “And then you can tell me about which of the naughty, naughty men I’ve taken into custody you see in your vision.” He pauses. “Or would it work better if you were wearing them?”

“It’s not always the past,” Carlton warns, almost as an afterthought, as he reaches out for the handcuffs.

“I mean, I’m nothing special -- anyone will tell you _that_ \--” Spencer says, leaning forward once more, “but even I can see what’s happening in the present. So what else? You can see the future now, too?” Spencer asks.

“Yes,” Carlton grits out.

“Funny how you didn’t mention that in your initial statement.”

“You. didn’t. ask.” Carlton, exhausted with the conversation, snatches up the handcuffs.

The effect is immediate. The handcuffs are there, cool in his hands, yes, but they are also there, skin-warm and biting into his wrists. He feels the burn in his shoulders, too, his whole body struggling to cast off any stricture.

This, Carlton expected. Spencer is there, and that, too, was expected.

Not expected: nudity. Sweat and slick skin. And not just his own -- Spencer’s, too. Carlton stares at the curve of Spencer's clavicle and -- fuck! -- the curve of his dick, jutting up from where Spencer is kneeling between Carlton’s spread thighs.

Carlton is being pressed softly down into soft pillows, and, “ _Shawn_ ,” he hears himself moan, low and rough.

“Gonna take care of you, Lass,” Spencer murmurs back, then places a kiss on Carlton’s exposed throat, places his teeth on the same skin moments later.

He leans away, taking the heat of his body with him, leaving the skin on Carlton’s chest feeling flushed and unprotected. Spencer guides his dick into Carlton, and Carlton is pushing back, squirming for it, hating the way it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Once he’s all the way inside, Spencer stops. Only his eyes move, sharp and eager over Carlton’s body, as if memorizing every detail. Then Spencer slides his hands up over Carlton’s hips, rakes his fingers through the hair on Carlton’s chest, skims his palms along the length of Carlton’s arms, and finally brings his hands to a rest, wrapping his fingers in a firm grip around the unyielding metal of the cuffs, around Carlton’s yielding wrists inside the cuffs.

Carlton is bucking upward now, heels digging into the soft bedding, but he’s slipping, unable to find purchase, and Spencer will not be dislodged. His throat feels raw, and he’s growling off and on, panting in heaving breaths.

“Shh, Lassie, shh. I’ve got you. **Let me.** Let me take care of you,” Spencer is saying, moving his hips at last, slowly sliding his dick out of Carlton’s ass, then thrusting back in. 

“Yes,” Carlton wants to say, is saying, will say. “Yes. _Please_.”

The hairs on his chest stir with a maddening tickle when Spencer lets out a pleased huff of air, and then he’s dizzy, tilting sideways, and Officer Spencer is catching him, removing the handcuffs from Carlton’s clinging grip.

“Hey, hey, buddy, you okay?” Spencer is asking, in uniform once again. Carlton looks around wildly, trying to settle back into this space and time, and also checking to make sure _Officer Spencer’s_ dick is safely tucked away where it belongs.

It is. Dammit.

“I-I..” Carlton stutters, blinks his eyes. “Fine,” he says, as crisply as he can manage. He straightens in his chair as Spencer eases himself away, arms still outstretched as if he doesn’t believe Carlton’s pronouncement and is ready to catch him the moment that Carlton inevitably keels over again.

“I’m fine,” Carlton says again, bringing his spine firmly into alignment with the back of the chair. “Nothing happened,” he says, feeding Spencer the lie that he’ll be expecting to hear. He jerks his chin toward the handcuffs, which Spencer has set once again on the surface of the table. “It didn’t take.”

Spencer looks at him, eyes oddly serious. The collar of Carlton’s shirt feels too tight around his neck, like another trap waiting to be sprung. He feels the tips of his ears getting hot, and he knows they must be turning a bright shade of pink.

“Guess you’ll have to find another way to convince me, then,” Spencer says. The air crackles with energy, and Carlton can’t tell whether it’s leftover psychic residue or… something more.

“I guess I will.”


End file.
